Snavender : A Bad Man
by GreatOdin'sRavens
Summary: Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it. The true and original Snavender fic.


Professor Snape is in his classroom, relieved the day is over and the brats that haunt him are gone to dinner. He inspects his Wall of Jars, Vials, Bottles, and Other Containers Containing Nasty-Looking Things and stops at one small vial labeled "Crushed Lethifold." Narrowing his eyes, he extends a hand and notices a rather vibrant purple stain on his thumb. He retracts the hand, eyeing it in disdain. He has gathered a few everlasting stains on his hands over the years, but this is not one of them. Licking his other thumb, he rubs at it, smoothing his thumb over his other thumb. Vainly, he wishes that someone else would do it for him, touch him so he wouldn't be reminded every time he touches himself that no one else will.

He is distracted from the idea of touching and other people touching and him touching other people when the door opens cautiously, and a rather shaky voice asks, "Professor Snape? Are you in here?"

_Lavender Brown. My day is ruined,_ he thinks to himself. He won't say it, but he must have some fun at the Gryffindor's expense. "No. I am not."

He watches the door. He hears the girl's breath stop, can see her eyebrows furrow as they do in his class, watches the door nearly shut before it opens and the blonde steps just inside the classroom. She looks frazzled; her hair is in a set of ridiculous braids, and half of her blouse is tucked into her skirt while the other half is not. He cannot resist the smirk on his face; it had been all too easy.

"Mr. Filch sent me down here for detention," she says after a moment.

"What?" Snape asks.

"Mr. Filch…"

"I heard you the first time. I don't need to hear your voice anymore then is absolutely necessary. It grates against all things intellectual in my mind."

Her forehead creases, and she whimpers a slight "uh" of disapproval.

"When was this? I never received a note of it."

"Just now, actually."

"What did you do to warrant getting a detention just now?" Snape asked quickly, curious. What on earth did Gryffindor twits ever do aside from bother him and break rules?

Lavender turns red, digs her toe into the stone.

"Answer me," Snape says after a moment. He will not tolerate Gryffindor twits not giving him what he asks of them.

"He caught me doing…stuff…in the hallway."

"…'Stuff'?"

"Seamus Finnegan and I…well, we were—"

"STOP! STOP! I DON'T NEED TO HEAR _THAT_!" he shouts quickly, though several graphic images flood his mind. Bloody hell, he was going to strangle Argus and Mrs. Norris. Together. Just because. "Miss Brown, I do not need to hear your tales of hormonal, teenaged exhibitionism. You are here for detention, and that is that. Clean these cauldrons. Wash the tables…something. Be useful." Then, because he cannot resist, "Preferably with all of your clothes on."

Lavender glares at him. He raises an eyebrow, daring her to say anything. She huffs, sticks her chest out as she folds her arms. He narrows his eyes in a lethal look. "Are you refusing to do your detention?"

After a moment, she simply says, "No," and walks right past him, picking up the least nasty cauldron and setting it on a desk.

_The world has decided to hate me today, it would seem,_ Snape thinks to himself as he sighs and sits behind his desk. He eyes the stack of papers with purest loathing.

_My S. A. On Where-Woolf Tranzfurmassion_

_By: Gregory Goyle_

At least the boy had managed his name this time.

_Where-Woolfs are people, but not really. They haff been biten by othur Where-Woolfs and are now not people, but Where-Woolfs. This is a bad thing, as Where-Woolfs are bad. They turn under the fool moon and go around on tieraids, killing and terning othur people into Where-Woolfs. Which, of course, makes them now Where-Woolfs and no longer people._

It is at this point that the Potions Master decides to groan in a mix of revulsion not only at the paper, but also at his sick fascination with wanting to read the entire thing. He tells himself he has to — it is his duty as a teacher.

_Where-Woolfs are bad. They can be dated only by othur Where-Woolfs._

Here Snape barely contains his laughter. By his instruction of "how do werewolves date?" he had meant to expand on their origin, their legends, etc.

_They canot date real people, because no one wants hairy baybees with snouts and tales. They are bad, and kill things._

_The first Where-Woolfs were Romuloos and Rehmus_

"Tripe!" Snape hisses, failing the paper immediately. Not only had the spelling (or lack thereof) given him a major migraine, but the mere mention of that infernal werewolf was more then he needed for the day.

"What?" Lavender asks from the desk. He looks up, slightly startled, having forgotten her presence in the room. His eyebrows shoot up. She's actually scrubbing the cauldron, her outer robes on the ground and her blouse sleeves scrunched up to her elbows. _Will wonders never cease…?_

"I'm grading," he replies.

"You mentioned tripe."

"I did."

"The food…or is someone's essay really bad?"

Snape smirks. He's good at it. "I doubt you are in any position to judge anyone else's essays as being 'bad.' Have you forgotten your essay last year on how to determine the colour of a potion based on it's ingredients?"

"Is that the one I failed?"

"You _failed_ them _all_! And terribly so!"

She shrugs, summoning her entire upper body strength and lifting a mass of black sludge out of the cauldron, plopping it on the desk with the utmost in strange sounds and faces. She wipes her forehead, causing a few stray hairs to fall in her eyes. She then prods — yes, _prods_! — the gunk, much to Snape's horror. He screws up his face in disgust, when a nervous knock comes from the door.

"If you have been recently assigned a detention, go tell Filch to bugger off!" he calls erratically. Lavender blinks at him, and he doesn't care. The door opens, revealing a small House Elf with a tray full of food.

Timidly, he walks down the aisles. The silence stretches as he finally comes to Snape's desk and holds out the tray.

"Yes…?"

"Mr. F-F-Filch told m-me to b-bring you din…dinner," he replies in a high, squeaky voice. Snape is not the only one in the room irritated by it. He takes the tray and glares at the poor creature.

"Tell Mr. F-F-Filch that if he pulls another one of these little tricks, I'm sending him far worse then a pathetic House Elf with a tray. Understand?"

He squeaks, squeals, grabs his ears, and mournfully cries out as he treks back to the door, shutting it loudly. Snape snorts in disdain, setting the tray on his desk before he looks up and sees Lavender eyeing him. No, not him. _The tray. She's eyeing the tray._ No one eyes Snape. This is evident when she licks her lips. _Definitely the tray._

"Miss Brown, if you could control your obviously _raging_ libido, you could eat dinner as well," Snape narrows his eyes in amusement. Her reply? Another hefty bit of gunk plopped onto the desk with gritty determination written all over her face. He smirks, wanting her to talk back, to snap back, to curse him out so he can get her in all the more trouble. He wonders what buttons he'd have to press, just to set her that little bit…

As he ponders the buttons of the average Gryffindor female in fifth year, a rat runs across the Dungeons, apparently attracted to Lavender's Mary Jane shoes as it runs right into them. Perhaps it is blind, but Lavender is not. With a shriek of terror, she crawls onto the workbench, horrified at the sight of the furry creature, which disappears in a crack before she can do anything else. She sits on the desk, her back arched at an odd angle, and stares at the place the rat had been as though expecting it to Apparate back and dance with a little crown on its head. Snape smirks at the whole scene, not sure whether to think of the display as "disgusting" or "decidedly feminine." He creates a new label in his mind: "decidedly disgusting and feminine."

"Miss Brown," Snape starts, clearing his throat.

"Yes, Professor!" she snaps back. He is thrown off by this; she has hardly talked at all, and now she is snapping at him. He doesn't let it show, however. His face is as it always is: cold, cruel, sarcastic.

"Finish the cauldron and go."

"Yes sir."

Snape goes back to his food, having trouble deciding what to eat. There is steak, potatoes, some carrots, a great pile of green beans, a pastry, and a goblet full of red wine. He smirks at the wine, taking a splash as he prods the pastry. It is an éclair, a French sweet. Contemplating eating the dessert first (he can do that; he is an adult), he glances up to see Lavender wiping the desk in wide, high arches as though she is a maid.

_Éclair._

_French pastry._

_Maid._

_French dessert._

_Maid._

_French maid._

_French maid uniform._

_Lavender looks like a maid._

_French pastry._

_Lavender in a French maid uniform._

"Forget it, Miss Brown. Just go. Preferably to your room, alone, so that I don't have to supervise another detention for your sexual indiscretions," he says in a low, serious voice.

She looks at him with an obvious argument on her tongue, seemingly very confused. She doesn't know if she did anything wrong, doesn't know why he seems upset with her. It doesn't look like he had anything planned for this evening, anyway. She goes to the back of the room and washes her hands thoroughly, making girlish noises at the grime under her fingernails. She wipes her hands dry and opens the door.

"Good nite, Professor," she says out of common courtesy.

No one has ever accused him of having common courtesy; he does not return the farewell. His eyes flicker up to the door just in time to see the last of the blonde hair before it shuts, leaving him alone again.

He does not go to breakfast the next morning; he barely gets out of bed. Between summons from the Dark Lord, meetings with Dumbledore, and his mind being suddenly attacked by hormonal urges, the Potions Master — quite frankly — would like to stay in bed, just for one day. That's all. One day in bed, alone, as he has always been in bed. However, he knows what he will do in bed. He will lie on his back and stare at the ceiling, thinking dark thoughts and unwanted thoughts and thoughtful thoughts. He will fold his hands over his stomach, interlace his fingers with his fingers, and try to push away the fact that no one will ever want to place their hand in his.

Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it.

He rises, dresses, runs a comb through his problematic hair, brushes his teeth, and looks at himself only a moment in the mirror before going to his classroom. He comes in only a few seconds late, his sinister stride quieting the students as he takes his appointed place at the front. He assigns them pages to read, daring any of them to talk. _Go on, I'd love to hand around a few detentions with Filch today,_ he thinks as he sits behind his desk, smirking, pulling out the essays he never finished grading.

The class is silent, leaves silent, and the room stays silent.

That is, until the next class arrives.

"Did you see her cardigan? Talk about ugly!" Parvati Patil says scandalously as she comes through the door.

"Oh, I know," Lavender replies, right behind her. "You'd catch me snogging Ron Weasley before you'd catch me in _that_ thing."

Snape stares at the schedule on his desk. _Double Potions, L. and S._ stares at him in his familiar script, and he stares at it as though it says _The Dark Lord requests your presence at his charity ball; Muggle attire, please._ How has he forgotten his schedule, and why does it matter?

He doesn't feel like putting up with Gryffindors, he tells himself. Nothing more.

He watches the two girls sit down, watches them pull at the ends of their skirts, cross their legs. Lavender does not cross her legs, he notices. A few more students come in, and he watches the other girls. Aside from Hermione Granger, they all cross their legs. Not Lavender. Her legs stretch, her ankles cross, her back arches, and she sits up straight, her hands on the flat desk. Her hair, straight and blonde, falling over her shoulders, spilling down her back, reminds him of Narcissa; Lavender's not like her, though, and he suddenly thinks of Lily. _No, that's absurd. Lily was an intelligent woman. Lavender is neither intelligent, nor a woman._

Much to his chagrin, he spends the class watching the students read. He tries to see the other girls in a more…womanly light. First he watches Daphne Greengrass. She is tan compared to the rest, with full lips and dark eyes, an exotic air about her entire being. None of that appeals to him: he liked the pale girls in school, the girls with fire and passion about something, the girls who were different in personality rather then appearance.

Of course, none of those girls liked him.

Correction. No girl liked him.

He watches Pansy Parkinson next, gazes for a long time at Parvati Patil, and completely skips Hermione with a curl of his lip. After a while, his eyes fall back on Lavender. An elbow is on the table, her cheek pushed up in the palm of her hand as her fingers drum against the side of her head. He squints as she sighs, obviously bored with her book. Her lips are parted slightly, just a little, just enough. With that sigh escapes a puff of warm air, he is certain. His focus on her is so great, he imagines, for just a moment…

Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it.

This is not the first time that he has been tormented by teaching pretty girls; he doubts it will be the last. There have been others, and he has lapsed into a routine. Lying in bed with his eyes shut, he imagines them — Lavender, now — in their entirety. _Find the bad in them,_ he tells himself. Swallowing, he breathes in, sees the Gryffindor in his head, sitting with her ankles crossed. He conjures every image of her he can remember seeing: her sitting on the stool at the Sorting, every pass in the halls or random spotting in the Great Hall, each and every class — these are all brought to mind, and the detention the nite before helps greatly in aiding his building a perfect model of Lavender Brown in his mind, behind his closed eyes. First comes the face. With Lavender, what comes into view? A slightly-pointed nose, slightly pink cheeks, lips somewhere between pink and auburn, and downward eyes. No, that will simply not do, he must envision the girl in her totality. As though tilted by a hand, the Lavender in his mind tilts her head up, looks at him directly. Blue eyes, blue like the water; bits of green and brown and even some yellow stare back at him, and he is grateful that her eyes are not green — green eyes are his weakness. Something about her face must be off, unattractive. He settles on her eyes: they are bright but not intelligent, full of life but empty of thought.

He smiles at that, because he smiles when he is alone. He does not have to worry about anyone thinking how ugly a smile looks on his already less-then-handsome face when he is alone. He can laugh sincerely when he is alone, but he does not laugh now. He has business to finish.

The Lavender in his mind stands, crosses her arms over her chest, flips her blonde cloak of hair with a nudge of her head, and assumes a defiant stance. There is one thing he does not like: defiance. He has had to obey someone his entire life; everyone should have to obey someone always, he thinks. Lavender should obey him, especially in class and even more so in detention. Dull eyes and defiance, two strikes. He must find at least five — that is the number he has set for himself in the past. The Lavender in his mind blushes bright red as he invisibly plucks at her wrists, hanging her arms out so that his closed eyes may look at her bosom. The last girl always kept her blouse completely buttoned, and he is quite thankful for Lavender's rather laid-back ease in her shirts that allows her to nearly show a hint of cleavage. Another strike against her is that her breasts are just too full for him; Snape is not a breast man, and he smirks at his third find. He has her step back, turn around slowly. The fourth one is easy: wide hips. The fifth is a little harder, takes a bit more time to figure out, but he finally settles on the way she crosses her ankles. Perhaps she cannot cross her legs because she has spread them too much, and they refuse to cross at the knee. Oh, now there is a sixth: the girl, for all accounts, is not particular in partners or locations.

He smirks one last time, his closed eyes looking over the flawed Lavender in his mind. She stands with her arms in front of her, her hands clutching each other near her privates, head bowed and face pink. He knows her flaws, sees her shame.

Opening his eyes, he may now go to sleep.

The next day is a good one for the professor. Students read quietly, his arm does not burn, and Dumbledore does not need to "speak with" him. He spends his nite propped up in his bed with a new Potions book, editing errors or making suggestions as he finds them and deems them appropriate.

Lavender Brown walked into class that day, he suddenly remembers as he takes a break from his reading to take his supper in bed. She walked in and sat down, tugged on her skirt, stretched her legs, and crossed her ankles. An extra button had either popped or was left undone, showing that little dark spot that led down to her too-full chest. He had spotted her dull eyes, found her method of reading with her elbow on the table to be defiant, and caught her shuffling her wide hips in her seat. Snape smirked at these flaws he had found.

She is not perfect, and she will not haunt his dreams.

When Snape grades the OWL assignments at the end of the year, he is mildly relieved to find that Lavender had not tried to go any further with the subject. Only mildly. She was not apt for it, anyway.

Snape's summer is tiring. He is reduced to a gopher for both masters, and finds himself shorter then usual with the rest of the Order. In particular, he finds himself rather irritated by one werewolf and his drooling, tail-chasing metamorphmagus of a friend.

"But, Remus, I don't care!"

"I do, Tonks," he can hear him reply in that quiet way of his. Smirking, he stands outside of the kitchen at Grimmauld 12, listening with a mix of amusement and disdain. _Seriously, you could be her father, _he thinks.

"Why? Why does it matter?"

"I am far older then you, Tonks. I am werewolf, and I won't allow myself to endanger anymore people then I absolutely have to. If I had my way, I'd be out in the country, chained in a basement two days out of the month."

"Remus, I…I love you."

Snape's eye twitches, and he feels certain something in his stomach just throbbed.

"You shouldn't," Lupin says even more quietly. Snape can almost feel the tension in the next room, awkward and unbearable. "Tonks, I have things to do. I have a message from Dumbledore to give to Snape, and as he sees fit to stand behind doors, listening to other people's conversations, I suspect I'll be walking out of here before he walks in."

Snape has no time to move as Lupin exits the kitchen with the most arrogant of smiles on his face. He only has to time to put on his usual smirk.

"Well, well, Lupin, you have certainly had a far more interesting summer than I," he remarks, his voice full of disapproval. "Still quite in her pram, wouldn't you agree?"

"I am quite glad to see that you haven't changed at all, Severus," Lupin manages. The man looks wearier every time he sees him, but that is not his fault; he still makes his Wolfsbane, still delivers it on time. Lupin draws himself up to his full height, looking down at Snape from several inches above. Snape manages not to show his discomfort, trying not to feel claustrophobic.

"Are you now?"

"Aren't I smiling?" he asks, just as arrogantly as he smiles. He is no better than Potter or Black; he is just another pretentious Gryffindor. "Here's your message," Lupin says after a moment, pushing the crumpled letter into Snape's hand, letting his hand rest there until Snape pulls it back with a snarl.

"Thank you, Lupin," he says, voice completely devoid of gratitude. He looks up at Lupin, who still stands in his way. "Do you mind?"

"Open it," Lupin demands, crossing his arms. "You heard my private life; let me hear a little of yours."

Snape narrows his eyes, little pin pricks of harsh black casting daggers into the seemingly carefree pale eyes of the werewolf he so despises. Quickly, he opens the letter, his eyes still on the other man's.

"Go on; read it," Lupin says after a moment.

Snape reads as he always does, his lips slightly parted to form bits of words as he finds them and—

"Oh my God."

"What, what is it?" Lupin asks, almost sounding concerned.

"None of your business, Lupin."

"How good can it be? Look at you — you're smiling."

_Am I?_ Snape sends the message to his mouth to turn down and finds his lips in a smile, much to his horror. He did not tell them to do that.

"Am I not allowed to smile?" Snape asks bitterly.

"You are, you just never do," Lupin shrugs. "You get a pay raise?"

"No, I did not. I got a job raise."

"What?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"He finally let you have it?" Lupin asks, shocked.

"Yes, he must be going crazy," Snape says acidly.

"He's not the one who called himself a prince back in school."

He's done it, tugged a thread that Snape would have rather left on the spool. He breathes in heavily, his gaze lethal. "Remind me never to invite you to a feast after the Dark Lord kills a blood-traitor; you would ruin the mood. Now, if you don't mind, get out of my way."

Lupin arches an eyebrow, steps back.

"Oh, and Tonks?"

"Yes?" comes her voice from the kitchen, weak and tired.

"Just because Lupin cannot find a woman his own age to go for him does not mean it is your duty to step in. You should stop before he bites you in his madness."

With that, Snape disappears with a loud crack.

The Dark Lord is pleased with his promotion, seemingly more so then he is himself. This is not strange in the least; Snape knows that his dark master sees everything as it applies to himself, not caring how it applies to the person it should actually bring the greatest joy to.

So, the Potions Master is no longer the Potions Master. _The Slug Club returns,_ he thinks with a snarl of his lip as he runs a finger over his bookcase, wondering what to teach the little brats first. He remembers the Dueling Club with another snarl of his lip. Gilderoy Lockhart, however did he manage to take on such a position? Passing a book titled _Leave Your Enemies Speechless_, he smiles. Wordless spells. That should be a real treat. The brats, purple-faced and sputtering, incapable of doing much at all. Oh, and Potter. The poor Golden Boy, seething with fury that he cannot manage to use the magic is so widely known for. His smile turns wicked as he takes the used book in hand.

This is going to be an interesting year.

It starts off interesting, to say the least. A great, furry werewolf of a patronus finds him, and he would be confused as to whose it is, except for the fact that he knows of a metamorphmagus who desperately longs to snog such a creature. He answers, escorts the twit to the Castle, takes great pleasure in placing Gryffindor in the negative numbers before the end of the Sorting, and smirks from his place at the faculty table.

Nothing can bring him down now; there is nothing that can take him out of his good mood. Severus Snape is now Professor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts. _Take that, Lupin — and I actually know what I'm talking about. I predict a nasty little lesson on werewolves._

Severus Snape is a man who loves revenge.

His first day does not go as he would like it to. Of course, the brats cannot do much of anything, and there is a constant smirk on his face. It is not Potter who wipes this smile off his face, no; it is Lavender Brown. Flung back and to the ground, how is it he lands just at her feet with a full view up her skirt? Of course, he jumps up and lashes out at Potter for his idiocy, as well as his complete lack of respect and honour for both rules and elders.

Later, alone, in his bed, he cringes at the memory of lavender-coloured panties, decorated with a single, large, white bow.

Snape now finds himself even more stressed then usual. He is more short, more crabby, more anxious, and always — always — expecting the worst. Professor Slughorn does little but remind him of what a failure his life has seemingly become, and it is not long before he finds himself watching students again. One of them being Lavender Brown.

He has always been fond of watching students, if only to see the way their faces hide little from their minds. Granger and Weasley he has watched when irritated — and though he would never admit it, he watches Potter when he finds himself thinking about his school days (which was not often). _If only he looked more like his mother,_ Snape thinks with a sigh, wishing that the boy had inherited more of his mother and none of his father. _The spoiled git._

Of course, James had probably thought that about him as well.

He never watches Draco.

But now — now he watches Lavender more than he had ever watched a student before. He watches the curve of her nose just at the tip, smirks at the little glints of comprehension in her bright yet mostly empty (he saw something every now and then in them) eyes, and snarls at the way she crossed her ankles and not her legs. Though, he has to admit, he was starting to fancy her hair: kept and blonde and full of body — the exact opposite of his split-ended, greasy mess of black. But that is how he keeps and likes his hair. And that is how Lavender keeps and likes hers.

He finds her popping into his mind or into his reality at the strangest of times. Every time he finds himself summoned to either master, she is in the halls with her friends, giggling like an idiotic schoolgirl as he passed. Oh, and how her giggling grated his ears — always grated his ears. He catches himself giving her a few points higher on an essay then she actually deserved, and he flunks her because of it.

When he hands it back to her in class, she looks as though she is about to cry. It was a rather well-written essay.

Back at his desk, he notes the pink in her face, the little areas of red on her cheeks. He quite likes it.

Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it.

Around the time Weasley and Lavender start to notice each other, Snape starts to notice Weasley and Lavender noticing each other. Weasley is far too shabby, far too awkward to have someone as Lavender for a girlfriend. She is a very pretty girl, and it is not at all wrong for Snape to think that. Not at all, period dot, no. No. He can think that all he wants; it is a compliment on her good breeding and well-kept nature. Her face, hair, and hands are always clean. She sits up straight in her seat, flicks her wand with a bit of a noble air. She is out of league with Weasley.

And why would anyone want him anyway? He's…he's…a Weasley!

He tries not to watch their looks in class, not to grimace and groan at Lavender's wide eyed giggles and Weasley's smug little smirks. The boy cannot even smirk properly, for crying out loud!

That is, of course, the least of his worries. He still makes Lupin's potion, still keeps up with the Order, and still meets with the Dark Lord whenever his mark burns. Fortunately, it either burns frequently or not at all, and Snape is just as petulant as usual. Even more so when, from afar in late November, he catches sight of some blonde and red thing against a wall and…egad.

He hangs back in the shadows until the two surface for air. Weasley mumbles something, smirks incorrectly, and walks off with Potter down the hall. Insult to injury. Lavender just stands there, brushes her skirt off, and starts off down the hall towards him. Snape sets out briskly, looking as though he has been walking, and stops directly in front of the love struck blonde.

She stops and looks up, her face instantly the same shades of pink and red he had so fancied months earlier. Is she ashamed of being caught snogging, or of being caught snogging with Weasley? She blinks, smiles innocently, and asks, "Can I do something for you, Professor?"

Fifty things rush to his tongue, fifty highly wrong and inappropriate things for a teacher to ever _mention_ to a student, much less ask to _do_. His face becomes disdainful, and he says in the calmest voice he possibly can, "You can stop snogging like a hormonal nymph in the hallways. Perhaps you could spend that time doing homework, hopefully correctly…?"

She draws her head back into that defiant stance, her nose wrinkling up. The way she draws her head back, exposes her neck, he cannot help but notice that one button undone, the one she always keeps closed, the one that reveals that there is more to reveal and wants to be revealed.

"Yes, sir."

Did she even notice how his gaze dropped? It was only for a moment, but did she see? He cannot tell by the look on her face, the pink-and-red look of defiance. She crosses her arms just under her breasts, pushing them up just that last inch, just…

"Good," Snape hisses. "Keep it that way."

He rushes past her as though on urgent duty. In a way, he is. Though, this duty is personal — the first duty he will have done for himself in a long time.

Snape needs to get laid.

Yes, yes; it is overused and clichéd.

However, clichés are usually clichés because they are true.

Snape needs to get laid. This is a true statement that is totally clichéd.

He sits, alone in a corner booth, watching the other witches and wizards mingle about, look for their cup of tea. He is reduced to sitting in the shadows of a brothel, hoping something catches his eye.

Of course, there is the witch in the schoolgirl outfit, the witch in the bunny outfit, and the witch in flapper dress. Nothing, especially not from the schoolgirl. He drums his fingers on the table when approached by a very tan witch in a French maid uniform.

He takes her in as she walked over: dark, tan skin; brown, narrow eyes; curled, auburn hair; moderate breasts; very little hips. He finds himself looking at the outfit, the look and fit of it on her. She is too tall — he figures this out immediately — for it. The white and black clash horribly with her dark skin, hair, and eyes. She is nearly the colour brown, and he is one to know that black and brown do not mix well. How would he fix the girl to match the outfit? For starters, the curled, auburn hair needs to go, needs to become longer, straighter, lighter. The skin must be pale; the eyes must be light and large; the breasts must be full; the hips must to be wide.

That is what is needed to fill out that outfit correctly. She must be shorter, pale, blonde-haired, wide-eyed, and well-rounded.

The shoes. He glances at the buckled shoes as the witch crosses one over the other, an ankle overlaying another ankle…

_Lavender crosses her ankles._

Then, before he can stop it:

_Lavender would look perfect in it. Perfect._

Snape breathes in deeply, waves the witch away, and leaves promptly.

How old is she? Sixteen, at least — perhaps she is even seventeen. And he is nearly forty; he has been nearly forty since he turned thirty. This is completely wrong. He is a terrible, lecherous, wicked fiend. He could get fired, even for letting her know the littlest detail. _It's not like I'll still be teaching at the end of the year,_ he thinks to himself with the deepest of inward frowns.

He has one custom made with a silky material. He has it made white around the waist, as he knows hers to be small. The sleeves are straps of white lace that are joined to the black with little bows, one white and one black. No irritating fabric, none; that will not do at all. The uniform will be tight around her waist and stomach, very tight — and he will be able to tighten or loosen it with the corset-like front. The bottom of it is black, not more than eight inches long, and hemmed with white. The shoes, the headband — both are made to please him. All are made in the greatest secrecy, the tailor as easy to trust as a Veela on the eyes. It is not long before Snape heads back to his office to grade, the costly parcel tucked securely under his arm.

Snape stares at the package on his desk after class. What is he going to do with it, give it to her for Christmas? He scowls at the very idea of Christmas, only two weeks away. Honestly, what had he been thinking? He cannot wear it, and she is certain to never see it, so why did he have it custom made?

He knows why later, after Christmas.

He needs to get laid.

Not with a whore, not with a Death Eater, but with Lavender Brown.

Why? Because he wants to, and he would like to get something he wants for once in his life.

It is taboo, wrong, shameful, and full of sin. It is a terrible thing to even pass from brain cell to brain cell, but to go out and buy something for her to wear? It is blasphemous against all that is right and good.

Then again, all that is right and good is usually associated with Gryffindors.

January comes and goes. February starts, cold and bitter outside. The fourth, fifth, sixth pass in a rush of rather unusual weather. He uses his upcoming birthday as an excuse, a reason to even consider so ludicrous an idea.

He watches Lavender the entire morning, taking the sight of her in completely: the long, blond hair and mostly empty, blue eyes; the crossed, covered ankles and that one undone button; the grins and giggles between herself and Weasley. He manages to catch her eye in one of these, and strolls over to her work area after a moment.

"Miss Brown."

"Yes, sir?"

"As you cannot seem to work with Mr. Weasley in the room, how would you like to stay after class and discuss the possibilities of a detention for being completely foolish in class?"

She looks defiant only a moment before nodding and going back to her work.

Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it.

As the class files out, Snape sits behind his desk, the parcel on the ground just under it, trying to work up the — courage, effort, gall? — whatever to do it. She remains after, and walks to stand in front of his desk when everyone else is gone.

She stands in front of him, her arms crossed, a finger tapping one arm in defiance. That strikes a chord in him, and he quickly pulls out the parcel and slides it across his desk.

Lavender looks at the door and looks back at him over her shoulder, uncrossing her arms. Her left wrist goes to her hip, and he notices a small silver chain with a moon charm bracelet on her wrist. He snarls at it, and at the new clip of a start in her hair: Divination. What a ridiculous thing to waste one's time and energy on. Perhaps they are presents from Weasley, or perhaps from her mother. Her right hand goes to scratch her leg, slightly lifting the bottom of her skirt as she scratches. Snape eyes this, sees it differently, sees her skirt going up much higher than it actually is.

"Put it on."

She gives him an odd look before extending an arm, pushing the wrapper to the side carefully. She unties the string and opens the box, looking a little confused for a moment before she touches it, a sense of realization sweeping her features.

"How do you know it'll fit?" she asks. Snape is surprised, slightly alarmed at this response. No sickened face, no disgusted words, just a question as to the fitting of it. It takes him a moment to regain his thoughts.

"You have a very hourglass shape, Miss Brown. I had it custom made to fit you."

"Oh," she says after a moment, dropping her bag to the ground and pulling the uniform out. She stares at him a moment. "Could you turn around, please?"

Out of the seemingly escaping decency he has left, he does. There is a shelf crammed with jars of many dead things just above his head, and he can see the distorted image of Lavender undressing as he hears the rustling of clothes behind him. He can hear and slightly see the deep breath she takes to get herself into the uniform, and a feeling of success begins to bubble in his chest. What the _hell_ is he doing?

"All right."

Right? Nothing is right about this. He slowly turns his chair around, tilting his head to take her all in.

The first thing he notices are the straps of her bra, lilac in colour and very thin. She will not be able to wear it when she wears this. What a thought! Yes, yes, it fits perfectly. The white waist, the wide hips, her hair falling in a curtain of blonde behind her back — all are perfect. The bottom of is neither short not long; instead, it is short enough to hint at something dark and long enough to look somewhat modest. It is not as long as the school skirts, thank God. Where is the headband, he wonders as he furrows his brow. He knows he bought one.

"Where is the headband?"

"This thing?" she asks, holding it in the same hand at the bracelet with the moon. "I don't know how to put it on."

"Let me do it then, you silly girl," he says, leaning forward in his chair. She steps forward, leans over his desk, hands him the head covering. She looks a little pink in the face, very cute and innocent, and Snape is losing it, he believes, after having even thought of the word _cute_ and using it inside his own mind. She tucks her hair behind her ears as Snape places the piece on her head; she automatically tilts her head when necessary, so he never really touches her. At the moment, he doesn't really w_ant_ to touch her. Something seems off. He clips it straight, and she looks up, right into his eyes. _Does it look right? Does it please you? Am I doing this right?_ her face seems to ask him, seems eager and ready, wanting to be just so. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her, but he curls a lip at the covering before placing a finger on what _is_ wrong.

"It looks more like a pirate's cap," he says aloud. She blinks and draws back, standing up straightly and lifting her arms to feel it. Her eyes look up, wide and blue, as though to see it.

"Should I take it off?" she asks.

"Leave it," he commands. He envisions her in the costume of a pirate, and laughs mirthlessly at it. "Get back into your robes."

"Yes sir," she says after a moment, obviously thrown off by his unexplained laughter.

Snape breathes in deeply, working up the whatever is necessary for his next demand.

"Come here in the middle of dinner."

"Yes sir."

"I will leave this under my desk. You will lock the door and change before knocking on _that_ door—" he points to a door on the other side of the room, dark and foreboding "—and affirming that it is you and you alone. Do you understand?"

"Um…sir?"

Snape feels for his wand in his robes. Hesitation. Not a good sign. He may as well erase her memory now.

"Yes?"

"What if I can't get the head thing clipped on straight?"

Snape relaxes, smirks, asks with complete sarcasm, "Do you know how to use magic?"

Lavender Brown has little to no idea what she is getting herself into. She sits on her bed and thinks to herself; she is quiet in her own mind for fear that she might say something out loud.

Lavender is not completely stupid.

She knows that Ronald and Hermione have had something between them since school started, since the very beginning of first year.

But…Ronald became very handsome while Hermione became plain: frizzed, brown hair and normal features. She doesn't even cross her legs at all in class — she sits like a boy! At least Lavender crosses her ankles and doesn't sit like a boy. That's a good thing.

Right?

She _knew_. She _knows_.

Then why did she…?

She feels stupid, foolish, ridiculous, and completely useless. What is going to become of Valentine's Day? Is Ronald going to take off with Hermione then? All she can think about right now is Ronald and Hermione. Together.

And right now, anything that takes her mind off of that is welcome.

Lavender bathes before dinner, shaves her legs and underarms, and applies the cocoa butter lotion her mother sends her regularly to keep her skin soft. She keeps her mind empty, blank, like everyone seems to believe it always is. What would she be thinking about, anyway? That little outfit her professor wants her to wear? She'd rather not. Though, she must admit to herself, she did look rather fantastic in it.

She dries her hair and body, dresses, clips her hair just so, her bangs having to be perfect.

_What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?_ Lavender thinks to herself as she descends from Gryffindor Tower, each step another set of butterflies like rocks fluttering and pounding against her stomach. She quells any worry or fear as she makes her way down down down to the Dungeons, and by the time the door is in full view, she can open it without the slightest hesitation.

"Excuse me, Dobby is just doing his duty, Dobby must be going back to the kitchens now," the House Elf apologizes as he waddles past Lavender in the strangest clothes she has ever seen on a House Elf. He has far too many tea cozies on his head, and socks go on one's feet, not one's ears. Watching him make his way down the corridor, Lavender breathes in deeply and silently enters.

The classroom is so cold and dark, so void of life and any hint of human care that she merely leans against the door and breathes for a long while. Swallowing hard, she steps forward, breathing in deeply at the resonating sound of her soft step on the cold stone before she walks forward quickly, down to her professor's desk. There is a small, red vial on top of a blank piece of parchment sitting squarely in the middle, right next to the tray of dinner Dobby had left on his desk. Curiously, she picks up the vial in one hand and the parchment in the other, only to have familiar handwriting reveal itself in dark ink, much to her surprise.

_Miss Brown,_

_It is nothing more than a simple charm, so don't look so surprised._

Promptly, she shuts her mouth and begins to read

_You are probably holding a small vial in your hand. I will liken this to Alice in Wonderland for you. It is red, you will notice, and it is how you stop this. It is a potion to modify memory, and you will remember nothing about this. If you look on my dinner tray, you will see a small cake the size of your palm, coated in green icing. This is how you go on. It is a contraceptive to make sure you don't get pregnant._

_Pregnant? Oh my God!_ Lavender stared at the word for a long, long time. Pregnant. As in, having had sex that resulted in a baby. As in pregnant. The word floated around behind her eyes, declaring itself in a high-pitched voice. _Pregnant!_

_Yes, Miss Brown, that is exactly what my intentions are for when and if you come to the door and knock._

Sex? With…Snape? Lavender stared at the sentence, her lip slightly curling at the idea. Sex…with Snape…that would include kissing and touching and naked and naked and lots of things involving naked. Lavender couldn't even imagine him without his outer robes on, much less naked. Very naked and naked and naked! The word _naked _joins _pregnant_ in its sing-song journey through her mind. Things that were done while one was naked made you pregnant. But…Lavender showered naked and had never gotten pregnant, so perhaps this naked was like that naked, only naked with Snape. She reads on, trying to put those two words out of her mind.

_When you change, bring your clothes with you in the bag provided by the parcel under my desk. Change and come to the door with my dinner, knock, and tell me what you thought of the cake._

_Now, either take the potion or take the cake; the choice is yours._

She blinks at the missive just before it catches fire. Dropping it, she watches it burn and crumble in a matter of moments, pushing down on the ash and gray with a foot. It reminds her of a cigarette, and she does not like those at all.

Interestedly, she looks at the potion, watching the liquid swirl inside. So this was how to back out. What would happen? Would she just forget and be confused, leave the room with no idea as to what had happened that day? Oh, and forget all of her lessons; that would be grand. Yes, she definitely needs to go into Divination without the slightest idea of the tea leaf technique they'd practiced. Or to go into Defense Against the Dark Arts, unprepared, for their test! _Maybe he'd pass me,_ she thinks with a huff, knowing that Snape will never pass her, and that she won't remember why he should have.

She spots the cake, tiny and green on the tray. It looks normal, like any other cake. She sits the vial down quietly, gingerly picks up the cake, and sits it in the palm of her hand to inspect it.

It seems normal enough, just like she had thought; nothing more than bread and icing and flavour, and not at all naked or pregnant. Pouting her lips in thought, she quickly opens her mouth and bit into the cake, finishing it off before she could think anymore on backing out of it. What if she took the potion now? It would probably make her sick, she figures, and so ignores it as she looks under the desk for parcel and bag.

She finds them and manages again into the uniform, making soft, disgruntled noises at the tightness of it around her waist and breasts. How could anyone bend over to clean in such a thing? There are thigh highs, white with bows! Also, there is a pair of black pumps (very cute, she notes) next to the parcel, and she puts these on before folding up her other clothes and putting them into the bag. The headband…well, she has trouble with that again, but takes care of it with a flick of her wand. Sliding a slightly steady hand under the tray, she stands up fully, bag in hand, and walks over to the dark door, her feet tap tap tapping on the stone below her.

After what seems like an eternity of swallowing and digging her foot into the floor, she finally knocks and states clearly, "It was very small."

Snape looks up to the door from the chair he is lazing in, his legs over an armrest as he bit on the nail of his pointer finger. It is one of his worst habits. He is sure to pick up something from a potion one day by doing it and wake up with some terrible thing assailing him.

So she had come after all. And she had read it, and eaten it, and was wearing it, and was standing out there now, waiting to enter.

He stands and opens the door, surveying the girl in front of him. Standing, he could see what those buttons on her school blouse would not show him, and he nudges his head for her to enter.

"Drop the bag by the door," he orders, shutting it as she walks in. "Put my dinner on the table."

She is quiet, her bright, empty eyes taking in his rather cozy sitting room. There are, of course, several bookcases filled to the brim, and then some. Books sit stacked on the floor, bits and pieces of rock and precious stone line the shelves, and the occasional mortar and pestle sit dusty and ornamental, some still coated with their last ingredient. The chair is black and made of a rich fabric, placed on a dark green rug in front of a small fire, which is roaring quietly. The table is an overly-large end table, black in colour and void of anything as Lavender silently slides the tray atop it. She turns to face him, her arms behind her back. He finds himself annoyed by the clip in her hair; he is thankful she had left the bracelet off.

"Take the clip out of your hair," he commands, and she does with a rather put out sound. She sits it on the tray and stares off at the fire.

Snape strides forward quickly, taking hold of the strings at the front of the uniform and tugging upward. A deep, surprised gasp escapes her lips as she put her hands weakly on his wrists, as though to stop him.

"What are you doing?"

"Tightening it," he responds sharply, pulling harder. She had no right to question him, and he pulls until she whimpers, practically begging him to stop with her watery eyes. He pulls her away from the chair and circles her. The cap still looks a little pirate-y to him, but oh well. Lavender is perfect, positively meant for the uniform, and he silently praises himself for being so great a judge of colours and their contrasts. He nods and sits down in his chair, fixing her with a rather frightful stare.

"Yes sir?" she asks. Her voice is curious, pained, pure, and completely strange to his ears.

"Come here."

She breaths in deeply and walks the few steps, stopping in between his legs. He smirks, tapping his fingers on the armrests.

"On your knees."

He keeps his voice bored and his expression emotionless as he watches her. Lavender places her small, girlish hands on his knees and lowers herself slowly, her eyes never leaving his for a moment. She is holding his gaze with her bright, empty eyes — and he likes it.

Severus Snape is a bad man, and he knows it.

Lavender lies in his bed, her skin littered with red marks and scratches, her hair a tangle of blonde on his black sheets. She looks completely out of place, and he is reminded of the myth behind the seasons, of Persephone and Hades. The headband rests lopsidedly on her fair hair, threatening to fall off should she roll over in her sleep. Snape has been watching her sleep for several minutes from his spot at the door, rolling over the entire nite in his head, again and again and again and again and again.

She pulls the covers up in her sleep, hiding her back and shoulders and curling up into the pillow, the headband pushing up and out, taking several strands of long hair with it. Inaudibly, he walks to his bed, sits down softly, and pulls at his undershirt. He suddenly feels warm again, just sitting near her. He plucks the headband off, setting it on his dresser and nudging Lavender gently. She moans and pushes herself further under the covers.

"You'll need to be setting off soon," he says softly, running a hand through her hair. He enjoys the feel of it, how soft it is, how sweet it feels. She stirs, rolling onto her stomach and blinking wearily at him. She sighs, and yawns, opening her mouth wide. He remembers what her mouth feels like, tastes like, how unlike a virgin's it was — the little whore. And her thighs, tensing and clutching; her legs on either side, open and prepared; her hands, touching anywhere and everywhere.

She sits up in bed, naked except for the hosiery, which are amazingly still in tact. His feelings on breasts have changed; he likes them full and firm, pressed hard up against him. She scratches her neck, and he recalls the scent of cocoa butter coming off strong from her youthful skin.

She can never remember this.

"Do you want me to take the red vial back to my dorm?" she asks, as though reading his mind. This is, of course, impossible. Divination is a load of pure bullocks, and he knows she is no Legilimens. He nods and reaches out, pulls her to his chest. He can say anything now, right now. Anything. She will not and cannot remember it.

"Professor…?" she asks quietly. She is still formal; that is nice. She could be calling him _Sev-Sev_, heavens forbid.

_I have to kill Albus Dumbledore,_ he thinks.

"I doubt I will be teaching much longer," is all he says.

Lavender merely sighs and walks in all her nakedness to the sitting room, where she changes back into her clothes and stands by the door, looking exhausted.

"I'm going to forget all my lessons today, aren't I?"

"Most likely."

"I have a test tomorrow…"

"Are you asking for an exemption?"

Lavender looks at him, incredulous. Her nose flares slightly, and her face becomes defiant. Her cheeks turn pink with just a hint of red, that colour he adores on her.

"Oh, fine. You will be exempt. Take the vial and go to your dorm."

"Yes sir."

He watches her leave, shut the door, and wonders what is going on in her mind at the moment, where her thoughts are. She definitely quelled his thirst. He will not want her again; he has had her once, and would rather keep it with nothing to compare to. He props his elbow on the chair, leans into his hand, and drifts off to sleep.

Lavender returns to her dorm and sits on her bed, vial in hand.

She drinks it, and when her professor kills Albus Dumbledore a few short months later, she is just as shocked as the rest of the wizarding world.


End file.
